


Of Wolves and Woe

by CastleonaCloud



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 17:50:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17329652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastleonaCloud/pseuds/CastleonaCloud
Summary: After John is rescued and somewhat recovered from his wolf encounter, Arthur pays a visit.





	Of Wolves and Woe

Arthur avoids visiting John for the longest time. Not because he is shaken, of course not, but because the camp needs it. He goes hunting with Charles, antagonises this poor O'driscoll more than he probably deserves, tries to help Dutch with his plans, even offers to help Pearson with his stew, anything to keep his mind busy, away from the mess that is John Marston.

But Arthur Morgan isn’t shaken.

“He’s still askin’ for you, Arthur.” Abigail states over coffee the morning after John’s fever finally breaks. Arthur thinks, as something inside him burns at the knowledge that even when not fever-delirious John is asking for him, that it ought to come out more nasty than it does. But it is merely said as an observation, and Arthur wonders for the umpteenth time just how much she actually knows.

“That so?” Is his mumbled, unenthusiastic response. He can’t say that he doesn’t want to see John. If only to see how he is. But going to see John will mean opening up doors he’s had jammed closed for years, and now really isn’t the best time, what with the gang, with Dutch, Blackwater.

“Go see him, Arthur. Please. If not for his sake for mine. He won’t shut up.”  
And Arthur might not want to like John Marston very much, but he does appreciate Abigail Roberts.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So he finds himself sighing heavily and trudging through the snow towards the main building.  
It’s empty, when he arrives. The other gang members must have busied themselves elsewhere. A small blessing, Arthur thinks, and then realises that it may not entirely have been by chance.

John lies in a small cot in the back, looking more pathetic than he has any right to, it tugs at Arthur’s heart and he tries to remind himself he’s supposed to be mad at him.

“Hope you’re gettin’ real comfortable there, Marston, while the rest of us go out and do all the hard work.” Arthur teases, because it’s easier than the tense, emotional direction this conversation is clearly inevitably going in. It’s easy to fall back to their usual bickering. But this time, John doesn’t seem as willing to go along with it.

“Arthur. .” He breathes, blinking up at him, and now that he’s close enough, he can see the full extent of the damage. He exhales.

“Well damn, Marston, good thing you already got a woman and a kid already, cause ain’t nobody gonna want your ugly face no more.” He continues, out of habit. Only it’s _him_ that still wants John. Has done for years.

“D-Damnit Arthur, for once can we not! I--” John starts, and he sounds tired, exhausted beyond belief, and Arthur feels his energy drain from him in a matter of seconds, slumping carelessly in the seat next to him, resigning himself to his fate. 

“What do you need?” He asks, straight to the point, because if he deviates for even a second who knows what might spill through his lips. The late nights pining for what once was, the pages and pages of his journal dedicated to John, the scrawlings of heartbreak and betrayal after he just up and left, leaving Arthur to pick up the pieces.

“ . . . Shouldn't have ever left.”  
It's the closest to an apology John has to offer. But it’s more than he’s ever offered before. Clearly his dance with the wolves has made him smarter, because his brain’s been working overtime thinking about all the things that Arthur tries not to.

A year. One whole goddamn year John Marston disappeared from his life, and then he just waltzes back up to camp one day like nothing had changed. Dutch accepting his golden boy back with open arms.

But everything had changed.

Now, much as he tried to deny it, he had a family. A near-enough wife and a child. And Arthur Morgan was nothing if not a man of honor. John Marston was yet another happiness that he was no longer entitled to.

But seeing John like this. It stirred up emotions he had been long suppressing.

“No fuckin shit, Marston, you damn fool.” Arthur bit out, but it was laced with a thicker emotion, and had he been more aware, John might have likened it to worry. But all he could do is let out a small chuckle which turned into a shaky cough, chest rattling with the effort.

In moments Arthur’s hand was on John's chest, trying to soothe him. “Easy Marston. C'mon. Easy. That’s it.”

His other hand threads into John's hair, fingers carding through greasy locks to help him relax. Even once he was settled once more, Arthur’s fingers remained there, a comfort to himself as much as John at this point.

“Just rest, John. Sleep. We need you strong again.” Arthur soothes. _I need you_ , he thinks. It’s John this time, not Marston. John might not be forgiven, far from it. But Arthur decides that maybe, just maybe, he should start giving John the time of day again.

John's eyes open briefly, panicked, as he peers up at Arthur blearily as he withdraws, sitting back in his seat and pulling his journal from his satchel.

“... Arthur?”

“What?”

“Don't let me die.”

“Oh for Chrissake you ain't gonna die you dumbass. Not on my watch. Now pipe down and get some rest before you make me real mad.”

“Yessir…”

A small murmur, and then John was asleep once more, hand outstretched to Arthur. In another time, another world, Arthur would have taken that hand without a second thought.

The idea is still tempting.

Instead, he settles with a hand running through John's hair, and a press of chapped lips to his forehead, and if two new sketches of John with fresh new scars appeared in his journal the day after, no one in camp is the wiser.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading (:


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